Bed of Roses

Black hair fanned out

over a gentle garden

of red.

Breathing gently,

she stretches and

opens her eyes to

the deep and penetrating gaze

of her lover.

Quickly, she blushes,

realizing that he

was watching her.

 

Laying down beside her,

he cups a flower

tenderly in his hand.

Eyes, dark and mysterious,

burn straight through her.

He kisses the soft petals

of the rose he holds,

imagining they are her lips.

Her cheeks ignite

with the understanding.

She ducks her head,

but he cups her face

with his other hand.

A kiss, passionate and longing,

is firm against her mouth.

 

Her arms wrap around

his neck, pressing him closer.

They fall back

into their bed of roses.

Kisses promising much more.

Author's Note

Would you like to lay in his bed of roses?

Reviews

[Inyourshadow]

The black fanned out on a bed of red reminded me of poppies and more so the opiate of their forbidden bloom, for hath not opium been the poets friend since Shelley and Byron, the use of the drug can also be the desire of the wanton passion that so consumes and makes us crazy. I love the question posed and wonder would not the thorns be painful although no pain no pleasure, keep em' coming